What Other Men See
by N.C.Faraway
Summary: John Watson wakes up in a strange place, ignorant of where he has been for the last 48 hours - or has it been longer?
1. Chapter 1

John opened his eyes. His ears strained for a human voice above the loud, blaring music. He shut his eyes again as they gummed together, sleepily. The music – so loud! How could he have slept with the noise? He sat up, squinting. A voice in his ear, "You awake, mate?"

"Yeah."

He opened his eyes fully and looked to his side, where the voice had come from. He was just able to identify a leather jacket, jeans, a pair of trainers when the face of the young black man was illuminated, here in pink, a moment later in green, a friendly grin emanating from both. A second later, he found himself hoisted to his feet.

"Feeling better?"

John put his hand to his chest as if to steady himself with something familiar.

"Yeah. Sorry, where am I?"

The young man smiled, "Take it easy, bruv. You'll be alright in a minute."

The man sat John down on a bar stool and John was now aware that he was in some sort of bar or dancing venue. A disco light illuminated a dance floor with hundreds of bodies moving in unison to a trembling beat. A voice rang in his ear, "What'll it be?"

John looked at the barman, "Bacardi, please." It suddenly occurred to him to check if he had any money. He felt his jacket pocket – yes, his wallet was still there, as were his keys and phone. He took out the wallet and found that he had more than enough money to pay for the drink with – in fact, more money than he recollected having in the first place. As he laid down a twenty pound note on the counter, it was now that John began to remember anything. The basics came to him instantly – John Watson, 221B Baker Street, Doctor – yet, somehow, he could not recall where he was or what he was doing there. He had a splitting headache – and it wasn't difficult for him to see, sipping the Bacardi, what had caused that – but he had woken sufficiently to realise a sense of vulnerability in not knowing where he was. He took his change and put it in his trouser pocket but there, he hit something hard and rectangular which he took out first.

"A cigarette case?" he said aloud in a puzzled tone. He opened it. Inside were five cigarettes. 'Hand-rolled,' he thought but other than that, there were no marks or initials that could at all identify its owner and John was at a loss to discover what he was doing with it in his pocket. At that moment, the barman turned abruptly and said, "You. In there." He motioned to a doorway at the side, wooden beads covering the entrance. John, completely bewildered, began to shuffle in the direction of the doorway, still somewhat slow from his slumber. As he pushed past the beads, he cast his eye back to the spot against the wall where he had been sleeping. 'Not exactly the classiest of places,' he noted mentally as he entered the smoke filled corridor. The lighting here was even darker than the room before but he notice a dull light coming from the end of the corridor and, as there were no other doors to distract him, he followed it down to the end and turned left. He came into a surprisingly large room, mood lit, some mock torches burning in the corners, oriental music playing in a low tone. Across the floor, mats and rugs lay, arranged in ordered rows, and the bodies of people, entranced, lulled by the music, in a state of Nirvana. The smell hit him – a mixture of bodily odours; perfumes and sweat, oils and blood and far less savoury aromas – and, overwhelmingly so, of an enticingly sweet smell which John knew to be none other than hashish. 'Oh my god,' he thought, 'I've walked in on a crackhouse.'

Whilst he immediately wanted to run away, he maturely told himself to stay calm and act sensibly. At that moment, the man with the leather jacket walked in and, taking him by the arm, said, "Come on, John. I thought you'd had enough of that last night." He led an astounded John out of the room and they began down the corridor again. As they did, a skimpily clad blonde passed by, stopping momentarily and brushing a hand over John's arm. John looked on at her as she headed down to the room he had just been in. "Does she know me?" he asked.

The man winked at him with a cheeky grin, "Yeah – you had quite a bit of her last night too!" He led an astounded John out into the disco hall again.

"I wish I could remember _that_ part," sighed John. The man laughed.

"You went off crazy, man. You've been sleeping it off for most of the day."

"Right," replied John, a little intimidated by the bright lights and the alarming alacrity of the information he had just received, "Sorry, I'm…feeling a little slow this morning…"

"This morning?" the man interrupted, "Yeah, you must be. It's eight o clock at night!" At this, he pushed open a door and they found themselves standing out on a back street, the sky already dark.

"At night?" said John, feeling increasingly more confused, "Right…OK…well, I'm still a bit tired so, do you mind telling me where I am so I can get back home?"

"Home?" said the man, "You're booked in for another two nights." He led John to the other side of the street and, taking a key out of his pocket, began to unlock the back door to another building.

"I'm sorry," said John, "Booked in?"

The door opened and John found himself being led up some stairs (which smelled distinctly of urine – and worse.) John felt the blood rushing to his head as they climbed flight upon flight of stairs.

"Doesn't this place have a lift?" moaned John.

"Lift?" chuckled the man, "This ain't royalty."

"Right," said John, "And how long have I been staying here?"

"You got a problem with your memory or something?"

"Um…yeah. Sorry. To tell you the truth, I can't really remember anything of what happened last night…or before last night."

The man laughed, "What, you can't remember anything?"

John sighed as he climbed the seemingly infinite stairs, "No. I don't suppose you could fill me in, could you?" The man stopped for a moment, looked back at him and then began laughing again. "Fill you in? You been hit on the head? That's funny, John, that is!"

John sighed in exasperation, "Look, the fact is, I just woke up and didn't remember where I was. I don't know where I am or what I've done or even how I've got here. I don't remember you or how I know you and I don't remember shagging that blonde last night. Or smoking pot, now that I come to think of it."

The man stopped at the top of this flight of stairs and waited for John to get to the top.

"John, man," he said, "I think you need to relax. Have a proper lie down on a proper mattress. You'll feel better tomorrow." Then he began walking down a corridor dotted with shabby looking numbered doors and finally stopped at 221. John eyed the door cautiously. Was this purposeful that it was his flat number at Baker Street or was it just coincidence? Either way, he decided to tread carefully from now on. The phrase, 'a stranger in a strange land' came to mind and he knew that he couldn't be too wary of anything. The man took another key from his pocket and began to unlock the door.

"Hang on," said John, "How come you've got the key to my room?"

The man looked back at him, "It's all in the job description, John." He pushed open the door to reveal a seedy little room, a plain bed in the corner and a chest of drawers next to it. John tried the light switch but it didn't work and the man simply walked in.

"Why don't you wash your face, yeah?" the man said, "You sicked up twice last night." He motioned John to the side where a plain door stood ajar and, from the small protrusion of tiles through the crack, John assumed he meant the bathroom. 'Nothing special,' John thought as he pushed open the door, 'but probably clean.'

"I'll leave your key on the bed then," the man called.

"Alright," John called back as he turned to face the toilet but then, as he viewed the scene before him, he let out an almighty shriek of horror which brought the man rushing in.

Before him lay the disembowelled and bloodied corpse of none other than Mr. Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh my God!" cried John, staggering back onto the man. The man stood there, jaw agape, his breathing laboured.

"Oh my God!" exclaimed the man, "Who is he?"

John gasped, "I know him! He's my friend, my flatmate!"

"Well, what he hell's he doing here? And who…?" The man stopped and looked straight at John.

"No!" cried John, "No! I know what you're thinking!"

"I'm not thinking anything, OK?" replied the man in shock, "Quick, let's just…"

The man closed the door of the bathroom as they stepped out. After a minute of intense breathing and calming themselves down, he spoke.

"We need to sort some things out here, John." He sat down on the floor, leaning against the bed and John did the same.

"You say you know him."

"Yes."

"But you said before you couldn't remember anything."

"I can't remember the past twenty four hours," he interjected, "but I know who I am, where I live, what I do." John ruffled his hair in frustration. He was still feeling deeply disturbed from the sight he had seen a few moments earlier. "I mean, what the hell am I doing here?" he began, in a panicky tone, "Who are you? How could this have happened to Sherlock?" The man put his hands on John's shoulders.

"Now, wait," he said, "First, I need you to tell me everything you do know. What can you remember?"

John eyed him suspiciously, "How do I know I can trust you?"

The man sighed sadly, "You don't remember me?"

"No."

"OK," breathed the man, "I'm Colin. Colin Levi. We met three weeks ago at the studio but we've been seeing each other regularly since."

"Why?" asked John, still not fully trusting of the man. The man looked uncomfortably upset and said, "We didn't really need a reason." He looked down at the floor for a second as John's bewilderment became visible.

"It doesn't matter," Colin added, "Point is, we know each other well enough to be honest. We're on the same side here, mate, so let's put our cards down on the table. We checked in here two nights ago, separate rooms. Mine's at the end of the corridor. You said you needed to get away."

"Get away from what?" asked John.

"You wouldn't tell me," replied Colin, "but you looked tired so we came here."

"And where is here?"

"Here – the clubhouse."

"So we're in London?" sighed John, somewhat relieved.

"Where we are doesn't matter," said Colin, sharply, "We're in deep shit, right now. Now, that bloke…" He paused, shuddering at the horrific afterimage now forming in his mind. "You say you know him. He's your flatmate?"

"Yeah," replied John, "We've lived together for years now."

Colin frowned. "You never told me."

"What?"

"That you had a…a flatmate."

John blinked in bewilderment, "Why should I?"

"No…no reason," sighed Colin, shaking his head, "You really can't remember the last month, can you?"

John shook his head, "I wish I could understand."

There was a sad silence for a moment – then, Colin stood up, "We can talk about that later. First, we've got to do something about this." He walked over to the door and pulled on it to make sure it was shut. "Who could have had access to this room?"

"I don't remember."

Colin ignored him, "Not you, clearly, since I've got the key. It wasn't me, I don't know the guy. So someone with a passkey. Or a copy of yours." He strode towards the door.

"Where are you going?" John asked helplessly.

"Reception – one of them must have a passkey. Maybe I can find out more."

John walked towards him. "Then, you don't think I did it?"

Colin took John's hand for a moment. He looked into John's eyes, searchingly. "If you say that you didn't…" He paused, then lowered his gaze and dropped John's hand. "If you say you didn't," he repeated, somewhat formally, "then I know you didn't." John looked down at his hand. "Now," Colin breathed, "Stay here. Calm yourself down. I'll be back soon." And he was gone.

John stood by the door for a moment, dazed. He put his hands to his temples, "Come on, John, _remember_!" But nothing came to him, so he sat down on the bed. He tried to recollect something, anything but all he had was a jumbled collection of memories, a scrapbook of events and occurrences which were all distant and faded, like an old photograph from his past. Failing that, he tried to piece together everything that had happened to him since he had woken up. The man – Colin. The crackhouse. The bar. The disco. Back to the room. It felt like a snapshot of someone else's life and he had just walked into it, an understudy in an unknown play. But how to make sense of it all? A voice entered his head, "You know my methods, John – observation and deduction."

It was then that his attention was drawn back to the door of the bathroom, the room that contained the horrific spectacle that he had seen only a few moments before. He sat, entranced, eyes fixated on the door. He stared so hard that he felt he could see through the door and suddenly envisioned the mutilated spectre of his dear friend. "John," it spoke to him, "John, don't leave me here! Don't leave me!" He felt its presence, sensed it stumbling forward towards him, could almost see into its hollow, tragic eyes. "Don't leave me, John! I could never be without you!"

He coiled up against the wall, shivering, trembling. _Go away, Sherlock! _he willed it, _Go away! _The sound of a car passing outside broke his gaze and the mirage vanished. Overwhelmed at the sight of his dead loved one, he broke out into a hysterical and uncontrollable fit of tears.

He rocked back and forth for another half an hour, barely trying to console himself, before, exhausted from the emotional agony, he fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

His dreams were troubled, to say the least. A loud, commanding voice over him, "It will be difficult, John. You won't be in a controlled environment. Not fully, anyway." And another voice, softer, deeper, "Don't worry, John. I'll be there afterwards." And then, he's walking into a large room, cameras everywhere, flashes going on and off indistinctly. And a young black man – Colin – smiling and walking towards him. "Can I help you? And your name is?" _John! John! John!_

"John!" Colin shook John's shoulder as he woke up suddenly. "You fell asleep! I told you I wouldn't be long!"

John looked up at Colin, "You're a model – no! A photographer!"

"Yeah," replied Colin, "You remember?"

John frowned, "A little."

Colin knelt down next to him. "What do you remember?"

"I remember the first day we met – I came into the studio. You asked me my name. And then…"

"Do you remember what you came for?"

John thought for a moment, "Well, I've got something. But it must be a mistake – another memory."

"Go on, say it."

"Passport photos. For some reason, I've got that stuck in my head."

Colin laughed, "Yeah. I asked you what you wanted and you smiled and said you needed a passport photo. I said what for. You said so you could be the designated driver. Then you asked me to the pub." There was a pause there, and John seemed even more confused.

"Come on," said Colin, "Can you get up?" He helped John to his feet. "Let's get out of here." He led John towards the door. The words, "Don't leave me!" echoed inside John's head. "What about Sherlock?"

Colin looked back at the bathroom, "You can't do nothing for him now, John."

They ran down to the reception. A dog eyed receptionist sat at the desk, lazily flicking through a magazine. "Did anyone come into room 221 in the past few hours?" Colin inquired in a somewhat urgent tone. The receptionist looked up slowly and gave a shrug of indifference. "We don't monitor individual rooms. Hell, we don't monitor any of the floors either." Colin sighed with exasperation. "Fine," he said in an annoyed tone, "Thanks." They turned away.

"But I can show you the CCTV footage of everyone who's come in and out of the hotel in the past 24 hours," added the receptionist. They turned back and Colin looked at John, inquiringly. John gave him a look that said, "Can't hurt to try," and Colin read it perfectly. "Sure," he replied and they moved so that they could see the computer screen behind the counter. They watched it for a minute, the footage running at a laboriously slow pace. A seedy character in a raincoat, one hand indiscreetly tucked down the trousers. John and Colin looked at each other with a look that said, "Grow up!" More footage. A couple, arm in arm, looking around suspiciously for signs of an avenging husband. Typical Mr and Mrs Smith scenario. More blank footage. The receptionist sitting on the counter with a cigarette. She shifted uncomfortably and tried to avoid eye contact with the two of them. More footage. "Come on," said Colin, "There's nothing to see here. They could've come in the back way anyhow." They turned their backs on the tired looking receptionist and walked out. Just as they left, a figure well known to John passed across the computer screen, a determined but equally amused expression upon his face.


	4. Chapter 4

A moment later, they were out onto the street again. "Didn't we have any luggage?" asked John.

"No," answered Colin, absentmindedly as they crossed the road, "You just ushered me out the flat into a cab and off we went."

He suddenly looked back at John, "I'm sorry – I'd better not tell you anything until you remember."

Colin led John through a couple of side streets and then out onto a busy main road. John heaved a sigh of relief. At least he knew where he was. A long stretch of buildings, ancient and modern, inter-dispersed and utterly dwarfed by a stream of traffic. Marylebone Road. Good old bad tempered, congested Marylebone Road. It was a small consolation for how he felt but it somehow made him feel more at ease and he was in desperate need of comfort. They stepped into the taxi. "The flat?" said John, "Is that where we're going now?"

"No," replied Colin, "We're going to yours."

John gave the address to the taxi driver with an added request from Colin to, "step on it." With that, they sped off and not long after, they were pulling up in front of the familiar black door of 221B Baker Street. As they alighted from the taxi, John sighed. "Ready to go in?" said Colin.

"I've got to," replied John, solemnly, "I've got to. But I'm somehow...scared." John felt the squeeze of Colin's hand.

"Go on," he urged, "I'm right behind you." He smiled a warm, comforting smile and John felt just a little better as he pushed open the, surprisingly unlocked, door.

"Mrs Hudson!" he called, "Mrs Hudson?" There was no reply. They stepped inside and John ran up the stairs.

"This one's mine," he said, as he pushed open the, yet again, unlocked door. Whilst he expected to find the flat in disarray, it was not in any such state. It was far from neat but that was nothing out of the ordinary and the rooms were in their usual stasis common to most all male environments.

"This place is a tip," remarked Colin, sniffing the air with distaste, "I'll look around, see if anyone's been here. You get changed into something clean."

At this, John smelled his jacket and promptly concurred with him. Colin began to wander around, examining objects here and there. John wandered into the bedroom and opened his chest of drawers. Everything was as usual – T-shirts arranged haphazardly, an odd pair of socks, a misplaced tie.

"No one's been in this place for weeks," called Colin from the other room, "The food's all gone stale and everything's dusty."

_That wouldn't make a change, _John chuckled inwardly. But his laughter was short lived as he remembered the horrific scene in the hotel bathroom. _I left him there, _he thought, _I left him there. _His mind filled with worrying thoughts. Had the body been found yet? What would they have done with it? A picture formed in his mind – of the cleaner who would find the body, screaming with horror; of the manager who would arrive, half dressed, and console the screaming cleaning woman; of the police sergeant who would try and questions her – without much success; of the receptionist who would report seeing 'a shifty man, wore a shabby jacket, obviously a junkie.' But worst of all was the image that formed now – a whole team of forensics examining Sherlock, poking at him, laying him out, taking samples. _I left him, _he repeated, _and I left him with strangers. _

He pulled out a T shirt and fresh pair of brown corduroy trousers. _Keep going, _he thought, _don't think about it. _But he found it hard not to think about it – he could scarcely believe what he'd seen. In his heart, he felt a great absence, a canyon of emptiness into which he saw himself falling. _He's dead and I'm never going to see him again. _He sat down on the bed and opened the top drawer of the desk next to it. Scattered papers, a dictionary, Whittaker's Almanac. His hand came upon a small book, tightly bound. He pulled it out. A faded card on the front indicated its purpose, "Photo Album," and he opened it and flicked through a few of the pages. A picture of him and Sherlock, sitting at Brighton Pier, looking down at a large dollop of ice cream which had seemingly just spilled onto John's jacket. Another photo of Sherlock and Mycroft in front of a plaque dedicated, "To Mr Sherlock Holmes, for services rendered." Another photo of John talking to Stamford at a medical convention with Sherlock staring jealously from the corner of the photo. _Ghosts, _sighed John, _all ghosts. _


	5. Chapter 5

"John!" called Colin. John, putting on his clothes, hastened to him. "John," said Colin, "Where have you been living these past three weeks?"

"I don't know," said John, "I don't remember." His mind was still a jumble of thoughts, a motley collection of images and emotions, none of which he could place a time to. But Colin was right, he couldn't have been living here, even if all his possessions were still there. The place hadn't been touched for at least a month, if not longer. So where could he have been? _Think!_ he told himself, _think! _But the thinking tired him and it was only now that he realised how exhausted he was. As if sensing this, Colin put a hand to John's shoulder and said, "Get some sleep for a few hours. It can't be much longer. We need to keep moving."

"We're not fugitives," exclaimed John, "We haven't done anything wrong!"

Colin put both his hands either side of John's shoulders, "In everyone else's eyes, we have! We can't afford to sit down and explain to them! Do you think they'd believe us? We can't stop until you remember! Only when you remember what happened can we do anything!"

John shook as a rush of panic came to him and he staggered back for a second.

Colin's voice softened, "Go lie down. Try to rest. I'll wake you up later."

John nodded quietly and shuffled into the bedroom. As he lay down, he couldn't help wondering if it would be worth waking up at all.

_John? I don't want you to be afraid. You mustn't be afraid._

_I'm not afraid. _

_Then why are you gripping my hand so tight?_

_It's not fear._

_What, then?_

_It's just that I don't want to let go._

_I don't want you to let go._

_Looks like neither of us are going to get what we want._

_Goodbye, John._

_Goodbye…Sherlock._

John threw back the covers. An alarm clock rang next to the bed. He slammed it silent. It was then that he felt a dampness in his chest. He looked down. Blood spilled from his bare torso and he lifted his hands, now red with his bodily fluids. He screamed as he glimpsed what looked like a spleen spilling from his middle and immediately passed out. A white glaze appeared over his eyes and he felt a stream of consciousness take over. _Where am I? I'm dead! I've been killed! _No, not dead. Not dead, just dreaming. _Stop dreaming! Try to remember something whilst you're still flat out! _A picture formed – fuzzy at first, then clearer, focused. A smiling face. Colin. A studio. "Can I help you?" _No, no, I've seen that. Show me later. _A feeling overwhelmed his body, a feeling similar to that of flying through a tornado_. _Then, a hubbub of voices, dimmed lights, hearty laughter. "This one's on me." A pub, a table, Colin sitting opposite him. "Are you sure?"

"No worries, I've enjoyed myself so much this evening, I owe you something back." Then, getting up as he shares a look with Colin. His hand on Colin's shoulder. _Great. An evening's social arrangement. Very helpful. _But then, a change of scene. Another public place. Out in the open, this time. No – an open topped bus. He's sitting on it, reading a leaflet on Buckingham Palace. Lots of tourists sitting on top with him. Photographs, people chatting. Two schoolgirls sitting at the front. A woman reading a book. A couple holding hands towards the back. Then, the woman looking towards him, a smile crossing her face. "John Watson!"

"Yes?"

"It's me!"

"I'm sorry – have we met?"

"John, it's me. Molly. I work at Bart's. You know, in the lab. You're always in and out of there with Sherlock!"

"Sher-who?"

"John?"

"I'm really sorry, I think you must have the wrong person."

"But you are John Watson?"

"Yes."

A long stare. Then, the driver announcing the stop.

"My mistake," she says, "I have to get off here." And then she's gone. _Why the pretence? Why lie to Molly? What was I hiding? _Then, another rushing feeling. Another open top bus? No – faster than that. _I'm running. _An orchard of trees blurring as he passes them by, breathlessly. A sense of fear passed over him. _Correction – running for my life. _Then, a shot. A burst of speed. More shots, ringing through his ears. _He's coming! He's coming to __**kill **__me! _Then, a mist appeared before him, rushing to him as he ran. _No! _John heard himself cry, _No! _And that was it. He opened his eyes and gasped in frustration. He hadn't found out much. It was all just a silly nightmare. Still, he checked his torso, just to reassure himself, and found, to his relief, that everything was still there and so was he. He rose, slowly and was overwhelmed with a need to eat and drink something. He went into the living room where he found Colin sitting at the table, head rested on one arm, asleep. He couldn't help smiling at this point and found himself taking a blanket and wrapping it around Colin's shoulders. Colin shifted a little but did not wake and John, led by his stomach, walked over to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Yes, Colin was right, everything was either out of date, or positively fossilized. He opened some of the cupboards and found nothing but a packet of custard creams. _Better than nothing, _he thought and took a bite from one. "John?" he heard, "Are you up, John?" He went back into the living room. "Yeah," he said, "Are you?"

Colin smiled warmly, eyeing the blanket on his shoulders, "Did you remember anything?"

John thought for a moment. _Did I? Or was it all just a dream? _"Oh, you know," he said, casually, "Parts here and there." He laid a friendly hand on Colin's shoulder. Colin held onto it, fervently, "Did you remember anything more about…us?" Colin looked searchingly, straight up into John's eyes. John looked back puzzled. "Never mind," said Colin, with a sigh, "Have you gotten enough sleep?"

"I think so."

"Good. Then, we need to get going. Got your stuff?"

John nodded.

"Right, well, there's nothing here worth looking at. Ready to go?"

"Where now?"

"This time, we _are _going to the flat."

As they left the flat, John's mind was a mixture of worry and relief. Relief because he knew now that he could trust Colin fully and that a visit to Colin's flat might aid the recovery of his memory – worry, because he was not entirely convinced that his being shot at was really a dream.


	6. Chapter 6

As the cab pulled up outside the flat, it now occurred to John that perhaps it was not himself he should be focusing on, but, rather, his companion who seemed to know a lot more than he did. They stepped out. "We've been seeing each other regularly for the past three weeks, you said?"

Colin looked back uncomfortably, "Yes."

He unlocked the door and they stepped in.

"Is yours the top or bottom flat?"

"Top."

Colin seemed to have clammed up and John didn't feel like pushing it further. They climbed the stairs and Colin unlocked his door. They walked in and John was struck by the erratic split of the studio apartment. One half was completely tidy, a beautifully arranged array of normality – a desk, letters neatly stacked away, a magazine rack, a telephone, a sofa and chairs displayed around a card table – but the other half was its complete opposite; it fanned out into a black and white ensemble of cameras and screens, lights and stands and photographs pasted all over the walls of the apartment.

"Sorry about the mess," Colin remarked as he slung off his coat.

John wondered how Colin could survive in such a claustrophobic environment, especially since it was at the top of the building and thus, uncomfortably warm in temperature. That and the climb up the stairs made John's forehead break out in beads of sweat. "Can I use your bathroom?" asked John politely, "I just need to wash my face a bit."

"Sure," replied Colin, going over to his desk and tidying some papers away. He turned around when he saw that John was still standing there.

"Sorry, where is it?" asked John, helplessly and Colin, somewhat sadly, pointed to a door in the corner of the room.

John made his way over to the door and went in, slowly at first, as the memory of the last bathroom he had been into echoed inside his head. He pressed the light switch and, strangely, the light came on in red. It was then that John noticed the actual bath itself, a long wire suspended over it with a string of black and white photographs pinned onto it. _Photographer, _he thought, _figures. _He had some interest in the subject himself. Cautiously and with all due measures of consideration, he began to handle them, examining them with an artistic and critical eye. He found them, even as an amateur, to be rather shoddily done with little attempt to flatter or properly light the subject. He went through them: a frog, in mid leap, a bird perched on a branch, an orange tree in full blossom – all beautiful choices of subject but with little care or detail effected in the photo-taking. Then, John came across the last three photos in the line – they were of him.

They were all clearly taken in a studio or some such place and John recalled the memory of his first meeting with Colin, asking for passport photos. The first photo of him was exactly that – he was sitting with a blank expression, facing the camera. In the second, however, he seemed to have loosened up drastically, and it had him lying down, his head resting on his arm, a very ostensible and showy look on his face as he stared at the camera. John chuckled at this point, scarcely believing the extroverted John he was now looking at. His laughter stopped, however, when he looked at the last photo. It was of him, smiling candidly at the camera with Colin's head resting on his shoulder and his arms embracing John's front. He pinned the photo back up and walked over to the sink, switching on the tap and rubbing his face with the cool water. _Don't jump to conclusions, John. _He looked up into the mirror and now realised how haggard and shabby he looked. He was unshaven and seemed to have broken out with an alarmingly pubescent degree of spots all over his face. In addition to that, his face was flushed and greasy, despite the water running over it. For a moment, he was transported back to his teenage years and the ceaseless worry he would have each day as he desperately sought to rub acne cream on his face. The nostalgia did not last, however, and he was drawn back to the photograph hanging a few metres away from him.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, he was visibly shaken and Colin, looking up from the desk where he was now sitting, noticed it at once. "Guess you saw the photos then?"

John nodded. "They're very good."

"Thanks," said Colin quietly and for a moment, remained fixated on John's eyes.

Then, he looked down at his hands and sighed, "Poor John. It can't be easy for you, not remembering anything."

"It's not," replied John, seriously, "It's a fucking nightmare." He sat down on one of the chairs. Suddenly, Colin took hold of his hand and held it tightly.

"I promise you, John, I'll try and help you as much as I can. Whatever it is that's going on here, I will help you get through it. And afterwards…" he trailed off and looked down, sadly, "Afterwards, we'll see what happens."


	7. Chapter 7

For a moment, both were silent. Then, recovering from his temporarily sombre mood, Colin looked up with a smile on his face and asked, "Are you still hungry, John?" John nodded eagerly and Colin got up. "I'll see what I can find you." He went over to the kitchen area, pressing the answerphone button on his landline as he went there. An electronic voice announced, "You have one new message." Then, a sweet sounding voice came on, "Hey, Colin, it's me, Melanie. How are you doing? I was just calling because I found some of those photos you asked for – the ones you took when we were at uni? Anyway, I thought we could meet up for chats and coffee or something. How's everything going? Still no luck with the photographing contract? OH! How's Doctor Perfect? Mike told me he saw you guys at the cinema last week. You've got to tell all next time we meet. OK, take care then. Bye."

A bleep sounded the end of the message. Colin emerged from the kitchen, a somewhat sheepish look on his face, with a can of lager.

"No, thanks," said John politely, "I don't drink lager."

Colin looked puzzled, "You told me it was your favourite." He sighed, then perked up quickly, "Coke, then?"

"A Coke would be great, thanks," smiled John and Colin went back into the kitchen. Whilst he was waiting, John, strangely enough, felt a lack of occupation and reached into his pockets for his wallet. He brought out the wallet and the mysterious cigarette case, the contents of which, after seeing the crackhouse, now seemed far less innocent to him. _Never mind, I can save it for Sherlock. _And then he realised. It still hadn't sunken in and an overwhelming feeling of guilt overcame him. He opened his wallet and pulled out his picture of Sherlock in there. For a few minutes, he sat, staring adoringly at it, until a tear came to his eye, at which, placing the wallet and photo on the table in front of him, he stood up and paced around, trying to forget. It was then that he was drawn to the desk and its contents. He went over to it, casually leafing through a bunch of grey looking bills and papers. Then, sordidly tossed across the edge of the desk, he found something that was very familiar to him indeed.

"Colin?" he called, "Have I been here before?"

There was a pause. Then, Colin called back, amidst the noise of the microwave, "I'd have thought you'd have figured that out by now."

"Yes," John replied, "I've just found my jumper here." There was another pause before Colin emerged again from the kitchen, this time with a sandwich and mug of hot chocolate.

"I know hot chocolate and coke don't really go together," he said, smiling warmly, "but I thought you could use with something soothing. You OK with cheese?"

John nodded thankfully and Colin then sat down next to him.

"I know there are things with I know and you don't," he said soberly, "and I'm sure there are things that you know and I don't. But it wouldn't be right for me to tell you what I know when you can't remember it yourself. I don't want to feed your memory anything false or confuse you further. Remember – I'm just as in the dark as you are, here. Don't worry, though," he added, "I promise that at some point, when you ask for it, I'll give you the fullest and truest explanation I can."

At that, John felt, though not entirely satisfied, reassured and smiling, picked up the sandwich and bit into it.

"It's good!" he said with enthusiasm.

"Well, don't look so surprised!" replied Colin, chuckling.

John wolfed the sandwich down at a surprisingly fast speed and after a "Drink up!" from Colin, his hunger was satisfied.

"I'll just clear up," he added, as he took the plate from John. It was at this point he noticed the wallet on the table, and, on top of the wallet, the photograph of Sherlock.

"You knew each other well?" he whispered softly.

John did not even look up from the photo, "Yes," he replied sadly, "Better than I've known anyone."

Colin was silent for a moment, his despondency clear but at the same time, a sympathetic look came across his face and he put a hand on John's shoulder, "I'll just clear these things up, then."

Though John's mind was far away in his past, the part of him still in the present registered a faint sobbing coming from the kitchen.


	8. Chapter 8

Ten minutes later, Colin bounded back into the room and slung on his coat.

"Come on," he said, "I don't know where we're going to go and what we're going to do but we need to keep moving. Now, I have a mate living in Central London who'll either be away or will be able to put us up for the night. Either way, we've got to go now so get ready."

In a minute, they were up, out and on the street and Colin began walking briskly down the road. "We've got to find a place where we can get a cab. Obviously, we can't risk going on the bus." As they walked out onto the main road, John was suddenly struck by something. It was the same feeling as if someone were staring at you or if you had a camera filming you. As a whistle rang through the air, John yelled, "Get down!" and pushed Colin straight to the ground as the bullet flew past him. More rang out and he was suddenly aware that the street was completely empty of people. "Run!" cried John and they both began to run at low level. John himself didn't think he had run faster in his whole life, not even in his army days. Suddenly, as they ran down the street, bullets speeding past them, each one getting closer and closer to the intended target, a long black car swerved in front of them and blocked their way. There was a momentary lapse in the shooting as they froze, trapped. Suddenly, the shooting resumed and a bullet soared just above John's head. The next one was for him, he knew, but he had nowhere to go and nowhere to hide. As the bullet shot through the air, John winced in anticipation of the pain that he knew he was about to receive. It didn't come and, as he opened his eyes, he clutched the jacket of the flailing Colin, blood seeping from his shoulder, his eyes going wide with shock. John stared down into his eyes in disbelief, and Colin held on to him fervently. "Run, John," he wheezed, "Run!"

Before John could do or say anything, another shot resounded above his head and suddenly, the door of the car opened and a man in a suit snapped, "Get in."

Without thinking, John jumped in the car and dragged Colin in with him. At that the car sped off, into the distance, a bullet ricocheting off the side of the car.

"Quick!" cried John, "Give me something to apply pressure with!"

"Relax," said the figure sitting in the back of the car, "I've a paramedic here with me who can take care of him far better than you."

The figure leaned forward and John now recognised him to be Mycroft, the brother of the late Sherlock. Another man in a paramedics uniform leaned forward and anxiously began attending to Colin. "You'll be fine, Colin," said John to him, desperately, "You'll be fine."

Colin looked up, smiling, despite the pain, "It was worth it for you, John."

The paramedic then looked at John and said, reassuringly, "He'll be OK. It's just a flesh wound, it hasn't pierced his heart." He then turned to Mycroft, "But we should get him to a hospital soon."

Mycroft nodded authoritatively and then sat back in the car, silently.

It was then that it struck John. "Good God, Mycroft," he began, "I need to tell you something very important about Sherlock. He's…"

Mycroft shushed him. "I know. I know about the corpse in the hotel room. I know about where you've been for the past three weeks. In fact, I know everything that you don't, right now, so I would suggest you remain silent for the rest of the journey. In case you're wondering, I have a man sitting in the front passenger seat who can kill you as easily as I can do this." He pressed a button and the driving screen opened, revealing a man with a .44 handgun pointed at John.

"So don't try anything."

At this, John was silent for the rest of the journey, left only to wonder at Mycroft's hostility and the condition of his newfound friend.


	9. Chapter 9

Half an hour had passed before John felt the car slowing and the driver stepping out of the front. The windows were tinted so John had not been able where they had been travelling. "Time to get out," said Mycroft.

Mycroft stepped out of the car and stood there, expectantly, waiting for John to leave. "What about Colin?"

Mycroft gave a patronising smile that somehow declared his own superiority and omniscience and said, "You heard the paramedic. He'll be fine." A click of his fingers brought another two paramedics running to the car with a stretcher and Mycroft turned around and began walking away.

It was now that John began to notice his surroundings. They had clearly arrived at the back of a large, official looking building and, as John glanced behind him, he saw the giant steel gates of the courtyard come to a close. He could just make out a crest on the gates but at this point, the man in the passenger seat ushered him on with a flick of his .44.

John began to walk briskly, in an attempt to catch up with Mycroft but each time he seemed to increase in pace, the man with the .44 put an officious arm in John's way. The doors in the back of the building were guarded by two stereotypical bodyguards, each smartly attired in suits and with discreet earpieces. As Mycroft approached, John could make out their lips moving as they whispered their arrival. Just as Mycroft reached the doors, he stretched out his hand and pressed it into a panel at the side. He then leaned forward and a bright light passed over his eyes. Finally, he flashed an ID card at the bodyguards who nodded respectfully and the doors of the building opened.

Mycroft turned around, "In. I haven't got all day."

_This is no time to be a hero, _thought John, eyeing the holsters underneath the suits of the security men, _and I may be finally getting some answers. _

John went through the doors first, followed by the man with the .44 and then Mycroft.

Mycroft, again, took the lead and lead John through a series of dark grey corridors, each leading into a different room. As they passed through, at a surprisingly calm pace, John noticed the signs on some of the doors. Radioactivity lab 1. Nucleo-combustion lab 5. Atomic research centre 3. It didn't take a genius to see that this was not a place open to the public but John that it was both useless and unwise to ask any questions at this point. Finally, they turned a corner and into a corridor that had no doors in it except for one, at the end. As they passed slowly down the corridor, John found the feeling of captivity inescapable. _It's like I'm being led to the scaffold! _Mycroft touched another panel, scanning his fingerprints, and the door opened. The room, as John observed, was very simple. There was a table in the middle (fixed to the floor, John noted) and a chair either side of it (again, secured to the floor) and a large mirror on one side of the room (undoubtedly two way, he concluded.) Mycroft stood, looking at John, for a minute, as the door shut behind him and John, taking the hint, sat down. Mycroft sat on the other side of the table and for what seemed like a very long time, he looked at John's face, examining him in a way suited to, what felt to John, a dissected animal. _I'm a lab rat and he's going to cut me open. _


	10. Chapter 10

After a moment, Mycroft's gaze relaxed and with a look of true amazement, he announced, "Remarkable. Truly remarkable." John felt that this was probably the time to speak out.

"What is? What the Hell is going on here?"

Mycroft, an amused look on his face, pressed a button underneath the table and at that point, a door, which John had not noticed before, opened in the corner of the room and through it, to John's extreme surprise and shock, walked an astounded Sherlock Holmes.

"Remarkable! Truly remarkable!" exclaimed Sherlock. But John did not hear it. Overwhelmed by what had happened to him, and the shock of seeing Sherlock, he passed out where he sat.

When he woke, he was lying down on a hard, metallic surface, Mycroft staring down at him. _Oh my God! He is going to dissect me! _Mycroft leaned back and suddenly, it was Sherlock who was staring down.

"Sherlock! Is it really you? I'm not dreaming, am I?"

A look of discomfort passed over Sherlock's face and it was Mycroft who replied, "No, you're not dreaming."

Then, John felt hands being place on his back and he was slowly tilted up to face them and a series of cushions placed behind him. It seemed he hadn't moved much – he was still in the interrogation room, except that now he was lying on the table, rather than sitting on the chair.

"It is you! It is you!" he cried and reached out to touch Sherlock's face but Sherlock stepped back, a look of disgust on his face.

"What's wrong?" he cried, "What have I done?"

Mycroft sat down and Sherlock stepped even further back, leaning against the wall and staring at John in disbelief and horror.

Mycroft now let a look of discomfort pass across his face and he sat down at the foot of the table. After a deep sigh, he leaned forward and said, "Do you know who you are?"

John blinked in bewilderment, "I'm John Watson. I'm an ex army surgeon and I'm currently unemployed, although I do some late night work at Barts. I live at 221B Baker Street with my…" John stopped for a second, then continued, "With my friend, Sherlock Holmes and our landlady, Mrs Hudson. And you're Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother."

Mycroft sighed and turned to Sherlock, "You see how it is?"

Sherlock nodded, "But it's remarkable. I wouldn't have known and that's saying something. What has been doing these past few weeks?"

Mycroft turned back to John, "Normally, I'd try to deduce everything that's happened. But I think this is one time where it might be best to ask you. What can you remember?"

John buried his face in his hands, "I'm not sure. I woke up in the club and I couldn't remember how I'd gotten there. And then Colin took me to the hotel and in the bathroom I found…" He looked up at Sherlock, who looked away, avoiding eye contact.

"Yes," said Mycroft, "We know what you found. What happened then?"

John was silent for a second, then spoke, in a tired and broken voice, "Colin took me to Baker Street. No one had been there for months. I had a nap there and when I woke up, I remembered Sherlock … saying goodbye. And I remembered being shot at by someone and running away. Then, we went to Colin's flat and…well, I had something to eat and then we were going to get a taxi to his friend's place when we were shot at." There was a pause as Mycroft looked at Sherlock, knowingly. Then, in a weak and desperate voice, John cried, "What's going on? Why can't I remember?" He shook his head in frustration but suddenly, he felt a cold sweat come all over him and he fell off the table, onto the floor, every muscle in his body contracting and expanding, every fibre twitching, his whole body trembling and quaking all over, rocking around violently on the floor.


	11. Chapter 11

"Don't touch him!" cried Mycroft, "He's into cerebral shock! Leave him!"

John continued shaking violently, yelling and grabbing his temples as he did so.

"We've got to do something!" cried Sherlock.

"No!" cried Mycroft, and he stooped down, taking hold of John, "Listen to me! Listen! You are suffering from cerebral shock – your brain has gone into overload, it can't cope with the influx of memory coming back! But you can control it! Now sit up!"

With Mycroft's help and with as much self control as he could muster, John sat up, still quaking violently and one of the security men lifted him up onto the table again and rested him on the pillows. After a minute or two, he managed to bring it down to a mild tremor and Mycroft regained his composure but maintained his intensity.

"Listen to me!" he said, "You are not who you think you are. You never knew Sherlock Holmes or Mrs Hudson or I. You work for and belong to us."

"W-what?" he stuttered, "What do you mean? I'm John Watson and he's Sherlock Holmes!" He pointed to Sherlock in the corner.

"He is Sherlock Holmes," said Mycroft fervently, "But you are not John Watson." Again, Mycroft pressed a button under the table and again, the door flew open. What came through, however, was entirely unexpected. As one John Watson stared at the door from the table, another John Watson came through and stopped in amazement as he stared at the image before him.

"He…he looks just like me!"

Mycroft turned to the John on the table, "You appear to be in need of an explanation. Your new memories may be mixed up at the moment but this should help to put them order." Mycroft breathed deeply and then began, "Three weeks ago, we received information that the world's number one assassin had been hired to take out John and Sherlock over there. The organisation that hired him is so intricate, so ornate in its management that we couldn't guarantee their safety by posting even the highest security precautions for them. Luckily, we had a breakthrough in our neurobiology department – our research scientists had developed a special serum that, when released into the bloodstream, would genetically alter the amino acids that make up the DNA in the body. In theory, this serum could physically change the external appearance of another human being. We've called it transmorphology. This was the first step to a remarkable innovation – after testing the serum on some lab rats, we found that we could alter the DNA of one rat to resemble another rat with alarming accuracy. It didn't take long for us to realise the possibilities that this could have for humans!" Mycroft gasped at the thought, "We tried it on some humans with surprisingly good results for initial testing. But unfortunately, this situation came up before we could carry out further tests. The decision was made to put it into action immediately and serums were created with the design to alter DNA to match the DNA of both John and Sherlock. Two agents were selected to replace them in their everyday lives until the assassin could be tracked down and caught – you were one of them." There was a momentary pause and then the John on the table spoke up, "No, no, no! I have memories, see? I remember! I could tell you all sorts of things that only the real John Watson could tell you!"

Mycroft ignored this desperate plea and continued, "That's where you come in. You see, there is little point in looking like someone if you can't behave like them too. So in order to quell any suspicion as to your true identity, memory chips were created, containing the memories of the real John Watson and the real Sherlock Holmes. These, we know, are completely successful when executed – we've used them for decades." Mycroft's enthusiasm was making him breathless. He paused for a second, coughed and began again.


	12. Chapter 12

"Three weeks ago, you underwent the transmorph procedure. It worked successfully, as you can see. But, in a panic and, doing what you're trained to do, you woke up and broke out of the lab before we were able to input the memory chip into your cerebral cortex. This is where our information is somewhat incomplete. It seems that once you had escaped, you did, of course, remember that you were not the real John Watson. But you did not know the location of the lab – here. It is, of course, common protocol to conceal the exact whereabouts of this building, for obvious reasons."

The John that lay on the table eyed Mycroft, angrily. _I've just been told that I'm not who I think I am. Nothing is obvious!_

Mycroft ignored his obvious annoyance and continued, "So you tried to communicate with us as best you could. Firstly, you made an acquaintance."

"Colin?"

"Just so. We tracked you on his client list, as John Watson. And since we knew the whereabouts of the real John Watson, it was clear that this person was you. However, it still took us three weeks to track you, and, in a further attempt to communicate, you checked into the hotel that you must have woken up in. You signed in as John Watson, of course, and this allowed us to monitor your exact location. Normally, we would have pulled you in there and then but since the matter was such that you had already taken John Watson's form for three weeks and had not been caught out, we decided to continue with the procedure. Yesterday morning, one of our men came and installed the memory chip into your cerebral cortex. It seemed that the only effect was that you fell into a deep sleep and did not rouse until later that night. However, it seems that, whilst the chip inputs the memories of the real John Watson, up until the transmorph procedure, it also eradicates existing brain cells, containing the memory, it would seem, of your former life. In fact, I would imagine, only in your sleep, where the body regenerates and repairs damaged cells, could you remember any of what had happened in the past three weeks – and even then, only in snapshots." Mycroft again paused, looking for confirmation. He nodded and Mycroft continued, "Later that morning, whilst you were asleep, we sent in the operative whom you'd been partnered with. We administered the transmorph serum into his bloodstream just before he arrived at the hotel." Mycroft twitched uncomfortably in his seat, "Unfortunately, this is where the science behind our operation began to go wrong. The serum wasn't compatible with the amino acids in his body. They're the ones that make up DNA and…"

"I know!" shouted the John on the table, "I'm a doctor!" Then, there was an uncomfortable silence as Mycroft gave him the most patronising, 'now, now, who's telling porky pies?' look and he looked back with resentment.

"Well," continued Mycroft, "the serum caused his whole genetic structure to physically change. Before, we had managed to localise the transmorph effect – only the parts of the body that were actually visible were genetically altered – but it seems that your partner had a rare genetic sequence which caused the breakdown of his immune system. His body began rejecting all the organs within it, resulting in the sight that you undoubtedly came across later that evening."

"So he died from the inside out," he said, a horrified look upon his face, "That's horrible!"

Mycroft looked at him, as if personally insulted, "That is science, sir! And you would do well to remember that, however temporary it may be, I am still your employer."

"But I can't remember, can I?" he retorted and then added, in realisation, "And I never will."

Mycroft calmed himself for a moment and then replied, quietly, "Whilst the physical aspect of the transmorph procedure can be reversed, the data chip cannot be removed, as of this point in time; we are working on it! It is unfortunate but, even if you cannot remember doing so, _you _volunteered for this operation and you were aware of the consequences that would come with it." Mycroft stood up, regaining his air of authority, as opposed to the embarrassed child he had been a moment before, "And now," he said, "you have but one option. After today's attempt, it is unlikely that the threat to Sherlock and John's lives will persist. Therefore, your services are no longer required. You are scheduled to have the transmorph procedure reversed at three 'o' clock tomorrow afternoon. After that, you will be re-educated – someone will teach you who you are and relocate you. Over a period of five or so years, we will finance the necessary skills and tools you will need to start a new life in Switzerland – that is, after all, where you originally come from." Mycroft smiled, the curiosity visible on the face of the table specimen, "Until then, you will remain under our custody. But, if you wish to benefit from all these things, you must swear that you will not reveal any details of this operation or who you think you are. That is classified. I'm already being generous on this occasion – I was advised to simply dispose of you, since you knew too much – but I chose not to, on account of the unforeseen events that occurred in between procedures. Do you understand me?"

The John on the table sat up and looked across, pleadingly, at Sherlock. Sherlock looked him up and down for a moment, a disturbed look upon his face, then broke his gaze and walked out of the room, pulling the real John by the hand with him.

The other John felt the dam of his emotions crack and tears poured incessantly within him – yet his exterior remained resolute and cold. In a broken voice, he replied, "Fine. I won't say anything about this operation. Or about who I am – who I think I am." He stood up and looked Mycroft squarely in the face. "Good," said Mycroft, in a satisfied manner, "I'll call you escort to take you to your quarters."

"No," John replied, obstinately, "I'll be in Trafalgar Square at two tomorrow. Your men can pick me up from there. Meanwhile, I want a little time that belongs to me. That isn't controlled by anyone else." At that, he walked towards the door. Two security men stood in front of it but Mycroft signalled them to stand aside and John walked out.

"Sir, do you want me to put a tag on him?" asked one of them.

"No," said Mycroft, thoughtfully, "He'll be there." Then, he ordered the security men to leave and for a moment, sat there, thinking to himself. _Oh, you can take your time. You can take all the time you like. But it won't be to yourself. Oh dear me, no – no one's time is to themselves. Just think of the cameras on every street corner, think of every person who passes you by and who will pass by that same spot again that day another sixty three times. Think of every black cab that passes, every telephone box, every 'tourist' taking photos – oh no, my friend, your time is never your own. It is mine – all mine. And eventually, you will come back._


	13. Chapter 13

Colin lay in a hospital bed. He thought back to the past few hours. Shot. Taken here. Bandaged, treated. A dozen nurses hustled around him. Three doctors in the past hour. He would live. He would live and it would hurt but he would live. The official state secrets act signed. That man from the car coming to see how he was. But no explanation. And now, where was John? Where was he? _It doesn't matter, _he thought, _he's never going to remember me, is he? All the time we spent together. All the laughs, the romance, the joy. All gone. And he's mad about that flatmate of his. Forget him, Colin! Just forget him! _But he knew he couldn't. He couldn't forget him. He couldn't forget the gaping hole in his heart. No – that was a scar he would wear for life. Every time he felt that wound in his shoulder, he would think of John. Every time he took another photo, he would think of John. _No, I can't forget him, _he told himself, _and there's no use trying to. There's only one thing you can do, now, Colin, one kind thing. _Colin winced and shed a few tears as he said it, "Let him forget you." And he screamed with pain, the stitches in his shoulder not nearly as painful as the stitch he felt in his heart. _Let him forget you! _And it hurt, hurt unbearably, tore him up inside, yet even as he felt this terrible anguish, he resolved never to contact John again. And again he screamed, the tears streaming for his face, repeating over and over again in his head '_He will forget me! He will forget me!'_

"And coming up, just now, is St. Paul's Cathedral. This urban masterpiece was designed by the renowned architect, Sir Christopher Wren…"

John sat on the top of the double decker tour bus. It seemed fitting that he should be back here again. He was still going through things in his head. _So when I woke up, in the club, I had been sleeping off the memory implant. And I didn't remember what I'd done the night before. That explains that – the drugs, the promiscuity, they were all part of the me that I can't remember. I don't know that I want to remember. All the memories of me and Sherlock – they're not my memories, they're his. They're the real John Watson's. Then, who am I? Just an agent, an agent without a name. The pawn of Mycroft. And Colin?_ He racked his brains. _Just another person in the game – probably employed by Mycroft. I should've known, the way he could predict my every move, known exactly what I was going to say, tried so hard to be my friend. Some friend! He was only pretending. He must have been fake, like everything else._

John went through his memories, the only memories he had that were his own, the last twenty four hours. _And when we were shot at?_ He remembered his dream where he was being shot at, chased, through an open space. _Another memory, _he concluded. _And then later, when Colin and I were being shot at and Mycroft rescued us – that must have been another attempt on John's life. _John – that name was growing more distant to him. Yet even as the name detached itself in his mind, another plagued his thoughts. _Sherlock! There is no Sherlock for me! He isn't mine – he's the real John Watson's! _He realised that even though he would never remember who he really was, he still felt every ounce of emotion that the real John Watson had – and the same went for Sherlock. _He doesn't love me – he loves him. I can never touch his face again, never hold his hand, never hear his words. _The thought overwhelmed him, consumed him with emptiness as he realised that he could never see his love again. _And what am I without his love? What am I? Nothing! Absolutely nothing! I might as well not exist! I might as well be…_ He banished such thoughts from his head and looked out at the view. This was, after all, the last time he would see London. Then, he would be flown off to Switzerland.

He sat back in the seat, ignoring the words coming at him over the loudspeaker, and checked the time – it was half past one. The bus would be at Trafalgar Square in twenty minutes. Plenty of time, even if it all felt pointless. He looked out at the urban landscape, the mighty dome of St. Paul's Cathedral. _Funny, _he thought, _I swear there's someone perched on the dome. _He squinted in the sunlight – yes, there was definitely someone squatted on the dome of the Cathedral. He looked on, in astonishment, and looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. Suddenly, he was aware of a red light focused on his temple. Then, of a blow to the side of his head. He fell back. There were screams, babies crying and, as he raised his hand to his eyes, he saw the thick red liquid dripping off it and realised, with an air of acceptance, what had happened. _I don't care. I don't mind. In a world without Sherlock, there is no living. At least this way, I can be with him forever. I can go, thinking of him. _As his head fell back to the deck and people rushed around him, the image of Sherlock formed in his mind and he smiled, his eyesight fading. _Sherlock, _he whispered, _Sherlock…_


End file.
